


The Day I Died

by ZarAlexander



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Historical, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZarAlexander/pseuds/ZarAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Historical, WW2] Rome, June 10th 1940: Italy declares war to France and Great Britain, entering the turmoil of World War II. As the Duce gives his speech to the Italian People from his balcony facing Piazza Venezia, a figure sits right behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day I Died

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taimi/gifts).



> English is not my native language, as usual.
> 
> This fic might be hard to grasp for non-Italians, so, if you're not familiar with WW2 history, please, read notes at the bottom.

Light filtered slightly from the open balcony.

Rome had always been marvelous in June, with the bright sun grazing the cobblestone streets with its harsh fingers as the gentle breezes from the sea turned the trees into rustling, wavy oceans.

 

A buzz of voices and cheers came from outside intermittently and he lowered his head, staring at his reddened wrists and tracing the painful line the starched cuffs of his uniform had drawn on his pale skin.

 

He sighed.

 

The sound of his boots echoing down the corridors announced his presence long before his figure made its appearance by the door behind him.

 

Their eyes met, but just for a second.

He couldn't sustain that gaze for long.

 

He nodded in acknowledgment and shame crept up like a vile hand closing around his throat, making him rub his wrists harder and harder, as the sting he felt broke the grasp of his own ignominy for the briefest moment.

 

The man bowed slightly in front of him, respectfully, and wasn't it almost funny? How everyone from his point of view was just a pair of overly-polished, leather boots swarming around a shadowy room?

 

Somebody handed the man some papers, and he watched him refuse them with an authoritative swat of his hand. A sheet was pushed in front of his eyes, too.

 

“ _This gigantic struggle is nothing other than a phase in the logical development of our revolution ...”_

The words hit him like a slap and he fiercely shook his head, disgusted by his own relief when the paper was swiftly pulled away.

 

Suddenly, a roar of voices and clapping hands, so loud that even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

 

He raised his head, just in time to see the man step onto the balcony, his shoulders straight and firm, as if no feelings could touch him at all.

 

How fortunate, wasn't he?

 

The man was speaking.

The man was speaking, but he couldn't hear a single word, as the sound of his thumping heart loudly filled his ears.

 

Breathing became hard, all of a sudden, and he brought his shaking hand to his throat.

Maybe his collar was too tight – yes, surely that was why he was gasping for air in a still day of early June, in a mid-lit room.

 

He ran his finger around the hem of his shirt, tugging as much as he could, desperately praying for some air to make it to his strained lungs, in vain.

 

“This was the best decision, Sir.” someone around him whispered in a tone way too low not to be laden with pity.

 

Decision.

Which part of that had been a decision?

Which part in the path he had just cowardly followed had been dictated by his will?

 

The word “honor” echoed equally loudly in the room and inside of his head, followed by the screeching noise of raucous cheers.

 

Which part of any of that was honorable?

Was there a part of him which could still pride itself with that word at all?

 

As the last grams of his strength left his body, he stopped tugging.

His arm fell lifelessly along his thigh and all he could do was stare, stare down at his pretty uniform, at all the decorations that adorned it, at all the badges he hadn't earned.

 

“You deserve them, Sir.” they had told him “You are the very Reason why this was possible, Sir.”

 

He was supposed to be in charge, wasn't he?

And he had almost looked self-assured when he had looked at himself in the mirror that morning, when he had distastefully rejoiced about the prim and orderly way all those medals futilely embellished his chest.

 

No, no, no!

Enough!

 

He wasn't supposed to doubt himself.

Millions of people depended on him, on his strength.

Millions of people were now cheering for a decision that, maybe, he hadn't taken personally, but that he hadn't obstructed either.

 

Yes, people were happy, outside, weren't they?

They were screaming, and whistling, and clapping their hands.

 

This meant he had been good, right?

 

Yes, that had to be the reason.

 

Suddenly, the man's stern and rough voice entered his perception by force, as if his sense of hearing had been restored all of a sudden.  


“ _The single order of the day is categorical and obligatory for all. It already spreads and fires hearts from the Alps to the Indian Ocean...”_

Yes, he had been good.  
There was no need for him to shake, now was there?

“ _Victory!”_

More thundering voices echoed.  
He forced himself to smile, feeling his cheeks quiver under the strain of such a pressure.

“ _And we will win, in order finally to give a long period of peace with justice to Italy, to Europe, and to the world.”_

He had been good.  
He had done the right thing, yes.

“ _People of Italy! Rush to arms and show your tenacity, your courage, your valor!”_

The loudest roar of all erupted, and he was almost sure his heart would just stop beating right there, right then.

Turning around with a dignity he himself wouldn't master in a million years, the man walked back inside, graciously shaking the hands of everyone in the room who complimented him on such an “encouraging, heartfelt speech”.

Yes, he had been good and he was even smiling, now, wasn't he?  
He outstretched his frail, jittery hand to shake that man's firmer, bigger one.  
He had done the right thing, he was sure of it.

As the man grabbed his hand, another voice echoed behind him, piercing the air like a dagger.

“Did you see, _my Duce_? Your words were so powerful, even our Sir, here, is moved enough to cry.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can tell you that pretty much every Italian kid saw in school the (in)famous speech Benito Mussolini gave from his balcony, to announce our country had entered WW2. 
> 
> You can find a transcription of his words here: https://historicalresources.wordpress.com/2008/09/19/mussolini-speech-of-the-10-june-1940-declaration-of-war-on-france-and-england/
> 
> Words in Italic inside of the story are mostly taken from his original, historical speech.
> 
> If you want to have a feeling of how it sounded, you can view it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBeFD9PFyTI 
> 
> Subs are not great, sadly, but it's the best I could find with English subs.


End file.
